There was no cure for what ailed him. He could have told the countless doctors, specialists and quacks he'd been carted to over the years. It wasn't anything he could physically explain or remedy with any number of concoctions, chemicals or charms. He didn't need sleep in the way that other people did. Doctors were stumped: he was perfectly healthy, not tired or sleepy, and a lack of sleep hadn't stunted his growth in any way. This news had frightened his mother and made his father clear his throat. Eventually he learnt to fake it, to pretend, so that he would fit in and the search for a Sleep Cure would cease.
Shortly after his eighth birthday, he began a nightly routine that would come to define his life. He'd wait until the breaths of his family members deepened, which was usually when the house let out its creaks and moans as it, too, settled in for the night, and then he'd slip out of the back door. It was better than lying in the dark, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the first light. One thing he'd come to realise, that he had never shared with his worrisome relatives, was that if he did not roam at night, the exhaustion he had seen in the eyes of other people would creep over him like a weighted blanket, slowly suffocating him during the day. His sojourns were for his health, he decided. In any case, his eyes were adapted to the dark, and his reflexes were second to none, so he did not fear the creatures of the night. But, he went out of his way to avoid people. They were usually drunk, and stinking with their ill-thought plans to take from others, usually by force, what was lacking in their own souls. The animals didn't mind him; in fact, they seemed protective of him in a way akin to stories he'd read in books.
He knew the movements of his neighbours like an artist knew his last sketch. There was Mr Killroy who liked to beat his wife and hug his daughters. Old Jerry McJarrod who still made moonshine in his basement even though he didn't need to. The Foghorn sisters who made do with each other because no one else could stand them. There was the young men's association who associated with other young men more than Reverend Lumbago liked to admit, but then he made frequent trips to the association as part of his missions and outreach, and the visits lasted until the wee hours in most cases. There was the teacher, Miss Glass, who lit candles in a menorah in her front window every night, calling to her beloved who was lost at sea, and the old postmaster, Mr Lincoln, always took his dog, Rusty, for a walk past her house just as she appeared to blow out the candles and close the curtains. On the white bread end of town he could hear the stealthy movements of maids and footmen, of lords and scullery girls, of chauffeurs and ladies and of sighing nannies as they trundled up to their rooms. On the pumpernickel end, the staccato conversations of chickens, dogs, foxes, donkeys, horses, cows, wolves, sheep and owls kept the night music going until the crickets and scarabs packed it up. He could smell cooking on the breeze; it told the stories of faraway places, of memories and of comfort unlike what he'd experienced at any dinner his mother had prepared. Sometimes the scents were dark, weighted with nostalgia for a different home, and other times they were so fresh that he merely caught snippets before they frittered away.
His favourite place was what he called the perch. It gave him the best view of the valley, and the outcrops along the slope buffered him from the wind. He relished the time alone, to think. He would watch the clouds, watch the currents of the lake disturbed by the trawling ducks and occasional night fishers, and he would sort through the noise of the daytime. A question he frequently asked the night was why so many people felt it was their duty to talk at each other, incessantly, as long as the sun shone. He found there were so many more things to be said with silence. His sisters and his mother feared the quiet, so they filled it with compliments and criticisms. His father punctuated their pauses with commands, and his brothers snorted and grunted like the beasts they were. Few noticed his silence. Miss Glass did, and she had tried to encourage him to open up more. His answer had been that he would say something when it needed saying, and she'd left it at that.
The wolves sensed that something was different before he did, and he noticed that they stayed closer to him than usual. He nodded at the alpha, who returned the gesture, and followed his gaze to a pair of lights moving down the main road. When it stopped, a figure lugged a bag from the rear and disappeared down an alley leading to the maze of sidestreets. He spotted it again on the path by lake. The wolves were restless; it was moving towards them.
"It's all right. It's a girl."
The alpha pawed the ground and sniffed. They watched her clamber up the hill to one of the smaller perches under the largest outcrop. The wind had started up and was pleating the water as it moved across the lake, and the trees were swaying in time to its rhythm. The alpha licked his hand and then growled. He didn't need to look back to know that they had retreated. The danger had passed. He watched her stuff her bag against the rock and lean into it. The night was not cold, but she turned in on herself. She was probably a drifter, or a runner, and would most likely be gone by morning. He spotted the dawn across the sky, and decided to make his way home. When he reached the foothill, he started. Over his shoulder he could just make out her outline; her arms were outstretched, and every so often her bellows would reverberate off the outcrops into the valley. The dogs, roused from their bone-chasing adventures, howled and nipped the air. Then, she disappeared into the shadows, and the wind continued to ruffle the valley and jiggle the joints of shingles, gates and chimney pots.
He noticed that the unsettled air had a direct effect on all the people in his house. Their collective mood made it seem that they had all been shaken awake from a heavy sleep, and it seemed to sour everything from the breakfast porridge to the well water they used for tea. He was unaccustomed to their somnambulant stillness. He fetched some things from Mr Barker, the grocer, for his mother and found the shop similarly silent. He wondered whether he was having a waking dream, like the ones he'd read about in books. It was when he paused to look at his list outside the Steele and Sons hardware store that he spotted her. Her gait was instantly recognisable. She was standing behind the counter, wearing a white apron and a floral bandanna. He could hear her scratching through a box of something. She looked up and rested her palms against the corner of the counter. She glanced at a parcel waiting on the other end of the shop that was flapping a white label with "Collect: Falcon". He stepped across the threshold and handed her the money. She grazed his palm with her fingers, and he had to steady himself against the counter. He took the parcel for his father, nodded at her and left.
The town was different without the usual chatter emanating from every doorway. He couldn't decide if it was strange because it was different to the normal he had come to expect over the years or because it finally mirrored his inner life. He reached the end of the street and was about to turn up to the path to the farm when he heard feet pounding the dust. She took his palm and pressed a cold object against it before closing his fingers around it. He didn't have time to form the question; she was gone. He found himself holding a tiger's eye in the empty street. His head exploded with enquiries, but he had to get back. He could not wait for sunset, so he filled his time with tending to the cows and checking on the horses and chickens.
The wolves were waiting for him at the perch. The clouds had tucked the valley in for the night, and the air was thick and still. He showed the tiger's eye to the alpha, who nudged him with his head and then sat beside him, crossing one paw over the other. The frogs began their chorus at the lake, and he relaxed into the moss. A whine from the alpha caused him to spot her at the foothill. She moved with care, as though not wanting to disturb the grass. When she was three metres from him, she stopped and crouched. He watched the wolves appraise her, sniffing the air and standing guard around him. The alpha approached, and she lowered her head. She proffered another tiger's eye. He licked her hand, knocking the gem to the ground, and disappeared over the crag, taking the pack with him. She sat on the ground, and stared at him. He lay back into the moss and counted the stars.
She inched closer, laying a trail of tiger's eyes all around him. She joined him in the circle and waited.
"You don't sleep?"
"Never have. Never could." Her words tumbled out like pebbles.
"How long are you here?"
"I don't know. My father sent me to work for my aunt and uncle. He thinks the country air will cure me."
"There is no cure."
"We know that."
"What is your name?"
"Selene. You're Dailon." She saw his question and said, "My aunt told me that Dailon Falcon would be picking up the package."
He tilted his head as if to nod.
"You've lived here all your life?"
"Yes."
"Am I intruding?"
"No. The wolves wouldn't have let you." He glanced at the ground. "What's that about?" He gestured at the gems.
"Protection."
"From what?"
"You mean, from whom? People don't like the fact that I can't sleep. These prevent me from being discovered."
"It doesn't work on the wolves."
"They don't care if I sleep or not, only if I am a threat." She lay down beside him in the moss. "Tell me about the town."
"Just listen." He waited for the noises of the night, and then navigated her from the pumpernickel to the white bread, down to the lake and back up to the foothills near his parents' farm. "What did you shout into the wind last night?"
"You heard me?"
"Not really. Your words were shredded against the rocks."
"I was asking for the chance to be accepted here."
The frogs ceased their chorus, and the clouds retreated over the bluff behind them. He closed his eyes and listened to her breathing.
He felt a wet nose against his cheek and opened his eyes. It was morning, and she was asleep beside him. His face broke into a smile. The alpha whined, and he knew he had to get going. He had read once that falling in love was like falling asleep; slow at first and then all at once. He touched her shoulder, and she looked at him with questions in her eyes.
"I have to go," he said. "See you later?"
"To sleep?"
"Per chance, to dream."
She smiled and watched him walk in the direction of the farm.
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